10. Golden Retriever, Attack Mode
Golden Retriever, Attack Mode
COOPER
The breakroom at NovaWave smells like expensive beans and cheap ambition.
It’s a sleek, glass-walled fishbowl designed for 'serendipitous collaboration,' which is corporate-speak for making sure nobody ever feels truly alone with their thoughts. I’m standing by the Jura machine, watching the little silver nozzle dispense an espresso shot with the kind of mechanical precision I usually admire.
Right now, though, the steady drip-drip-drip feels like a countdown.
My skin still feels two sizes too small after the recording session.
The metrics were screaming green, the chat was a literal firestorm of heart emojis and ‘omg the tension’ comments, but the look on Sloane’s face when the mics went dead was something I can’t shake.
It was the look of someone who had just realized the floor was actually a trapdoor.
I hear voices before I see them. One is a low, rhythmic murmur—Sloane, sharp even when she’s exhausted.
The other is a nasal, self-satisfied rasp that sets my teeth on edge.
Derek Halloway. He’s the kind of guy who wears a podcasting headset like a crown and treats his listener count like a credit score he’s constantly trying to flex.
"I’m just saying, Sloane, the ‘No-Bull’ brand is getting a little...
flexible lately," Derek says. I can hear the smirk in his voice, that oily tone that suggests he’s holding a pair of aces he didn't earn.
"First the lifestyle pivot with the Golden Boy here, and now these rumors about the old archives. It’s a lot of rebranding for one month. "
I step around the corner of the oversized industrial fridge.
Sloane is backed against the quartz countertop, her knuckles white where she’s gripping a ceramic mug.
She looks smaller than usual, her shoulders pulled in, that razor-tongued armor of hers flickering like a dying fluorescent bulb.
She isn't fighting back. Not yet. She’s just... taking it.
"My archives are my business, Derek," Sloane says, her voice tight enough to snap. "And my brand is doing just fine. Better than yours, if the morning reports are anything to go by."
Derek lets out a sharp, barking laugh. He moves closer, invading her personal space with a casualness that makes my pulse spike in my throat.
"The reports show people love a train wreck, Sloane. They love seeing the girl who calls out everyone else’s lies finally trip over her own.
That old clip? The one where you’re sobbing about your mentor?
It’s a classic. I hear Rhea’s got it on a loop in the marketing suite.
Makes for great 'vulnerability' content. "
I don't think about the move. I just make it. I’m a big guy—six-foot-two and built from years of collegiate swimming and the kind of restless energy that usually manifests as 'approachable.
' But as I step between them, I feel the sunshine-and-Henleys persona slough off like dead skin.
I don't raise my voice. I don't have to.
"Derek," I say. The name doesn't come out as a greeting; it's a dead weight, like a stone dropping into a well.
I stop three inches from his personal space, forcing him to crane his neck back.
I can see the moment his smug expression falters, replaced by the sudden realization that the 'Golden Retriever' has teeth.
"Cooper," he stammers, trying to recover his footing. "We were just having a professional chat about the show's direction. No need to get—"
"You’re leaving," I interrupt, my voice flat and quiet. I don't move an inch. I let my height do the talking, looming over him until the breakroom feels as small as an elevator. "You’re going back to your studio, you’re going to sit in your chair, and you’re going to keep Sloane’s name out of your mouth.
If you have thoughts on the show’s direction, you can send a memo to Graham.
But you don't talk to her like that. Not ever again. "
Derek looks at me, then at Sloane, his eyes darting like he's looking for an exit strategy that doesn't involve him losing face.
He finds none. I stay perfectly still, my hands at my sides, my heart doing a slow, heavy thud-thud-thud against my ribs.
It isn't fear. It's the cold, clean clarity of protection.
"Whatever, man," Derek mutters, shoving his hands into his pockets and skirting around me. "I didn't realize you were her bodyguard now. Hope the ratings are worth the leash."
He scuttles out of the room, the glass door swinging shut behind him with a soft, expensive hiss. The silence that follows is thick with the smell of burnt coffee and the sudden, jarring absence of conflict. I don't turn around immediately. I wait for my hands to stop feeling like they’re humming.
When I finally turn, Sloane is looking at me like I’ve just turned into a different species.
She hasn't moved from the counter. Her mug is still gripped in both hands, but her expression isn't guarded anymore—it’s bewildered.
She looks at me the way she might look at a map that had suddenly redrawn itself.
"I didn't need you to do that," she says, but the bite is gone from her voice. It’s just a statement of fact, one that feels more like a question.
"I know you didn't," I say, leaning back against the opposite counter to give her space.
I try to find my smile, the one that usually works like a universal remote, but it won't come.
"You’re the smartest, toughest person in this building, Sloane.
You could have dismantled him in ten seconds.
But you shouldn't have to. Not for that garbage. "
She looks down at her coffee, her thumb tracing the rim of the mug. "He’s right about one thing. The network is watching. They’re salivating over the drama. They don't want the investigative work, Cooper. They want the blood in the water."
"They won't get it," I say, and for the first time, I realize I mean it as a vow. "Not from you. Not if I can help it."
She finally looks up, her dark eyes searching mine for the catch, the angle, the hidden corporate directive.
She’s looking for the 'Golden Boy' and finding something else. The tension between us shifts, moving from the sharp, professional friction of the studio to something quieter and much more dangerous. It’s the feeling of a boundary being crossed without a single step being taken.
"Why?" she asks, a single word that carries the weight of every betrayal she’s ever suffered. "Why do you care? You’re the one they’re grooming to take over if I tank. You’re the safe bet, Cooper. You’re the one with the clean slate and the perfect smile."
"Because I’m not them," I say, stepping closer—just enough to feel the heat coming off her, but not enough to make her retreat. "And because I’ve seen the way you look when you think nobody’s watching, Sloane.
You’re not just a brand. You’re a mother who builds LEGO Batmen and a journalist who actually gives a damn about the truth.
I don't want the show if it means losing that. "
She opens her mouth to respond, a retort surely forming behind her teeth, but the door swings open again. It’s Inez, her face a mask of pragmatic neutrality, but her eyes flick between us with the speed of a professional observer. She clears her throat, the sound sharp in the small room.
"Graham wants you in the boardroom," Inez says, her voice dry as parchment. "Both of you. Now. He said something about 'leveraging the momentum.'"
Sloane’s armor snaps back into place so fast it’s almost audible.
She straightens her shoulders, sets her mug down with a decisive click, and becomes the razor-tongued host of The Donovan Report again.
But as she walks past me, her hand brushes against my arm—a touch so light it could have been an accident, except she lingers for a fraction of a second too long.
I follow her down the hallway, my mind racing.
I need to know what Rhea and Graham are planning.
I need to know how deep the 'Contingency' folder goes. Because if they’re planning to pivot the show entirely to me, if they’re setting the stage for Sloane’s erasure, then the 'Golden Retriever' is going to have to do a lot more than just bark.
I think of the file in my drawer, the metadata that proves the leaks are coming from inside the building.
I think of Milo’s laugh and the way Sloane’s mouth looked when she was defending her son.
I’m not a spy, and I’m definitely not a corporate saboteur.
I’m just a guy who’s starting to realize that the most important thing he’s ever recorded might be the stuff the microphones never catch.